


how does the canary sing

by nicole_writes



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, Whump, emphasis on the hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26523571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicole_writes/pseuds/nicole_writes
Summary: “You taking back Fhirdiad is protecting all of Faerghus. I need to help my people. Galatea is already poor and starving. Theyneedme,” Ingrid cuts in.“Hey,” Sylvain says suddenly, shooting out of his chair, holding up a hand between Ingrid and Dimitri. “No one said we wouldn’t take care of the issue,” he assures.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 19
Kudos: 57





	how does the canary sing

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Implied/referenced torture, some very mild torture actually described, physical violence but NO sexual violence, trauma, PTSD
> 
> This fic got away from me and it got very heavy. It's rated M for a reason, please check the triggers and read only what you're comfortable with.
> 
> Big thanks to [livmoores](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livmoores) for betaing this for me <3

“These bandits have been ravaging Galatea for weeks, Your Highness,” Ingrid says fiercely. “I have to help my people.”

Dimitri looks exhausted and she almost feels bad for snapping at him. He rubs the bottom of his face and sighs, staring down at the battle map spread out in front of them. “Ingrid, I want to go after them, but we need all of our strength to take Fhirdiad at the end of the month.”

She squares her shoulders. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, sparing me and a couple of soldiers for a week, maximum, shouldn’t change our plans to take back the capital. We’ve already put the Empire on their heels by relocating here to Fraldarius when they think we’re still at the Monastery.”

Dimitri frowns. “Ingrid,” he starts and she slams her hands on the table. 

“You taking back Fhirdiad is protecting all of Faerghus. I need to help my people. Galatea is already poor and starving. They _need_ me,” Ingrid cuts in. 

“Hey,” Sylvain says suddenly, shooting out of his chair, holding up a hand between Ingrid and Dimitri. “No one said we wouldn’t take care of the issue,” he assures. 

Ingrid frowns. “I thought that was exactly what was happening.”

Felix stands up and points out the marked point in Galatea where the bandits were last known to be. “We don’t even know if they’re really bandits,” he points out. “It would be beneficial to make sure that they’re just thieves and not Empire soldiers pressing in behind us.”

Ingrid looks gratefully between her friends. Dimitri considers both Felix and Sylvain’s interjections. Ingrid smooths over the edge of the map in front of her and basically holds her breath as she waits for Dimitri to make his call. 

He glances right to Byleth who is staring at the map intently. “Professor?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time that the Empire tried to disguise themselves as bandits or merchants,” Byleth assents. “It might be worth an investigation.”

Dimitri sighs and when he looks back at Ingrid, he looks apologetic. “Alright, Ingrid. I give you permission to lead a small party to investigate the bandits. Please be careful and send a messenger when you arrive. Don’t take risks we can’t afford.”

Ingrid feels relieved. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Dimitri nods, his eye softening. He is about to call the discussion adjourned when Sylvain holds up a hand.

“Permission to accompany Ingrid, Your Highness?”

Dimitri’s brow furrows. “Sylvain?”

Sylvain taps the map, pointing out the forest where the bandit encampment was last reported. “This kind of terrain is much more my speed than Ingrid’s with a flying battalion. If I accompany her, we can have eyes on the ground and in the air. Won’t add any more time or worries to the mission, just more security if anything.”

“That’s a fair proposition,” Byleth agrees. 

Dimitri nods then. “If Ingrid is amiable to the idea, then go ahead.” He looks at Felix.

Felix scoffs and folds his arms. “I’d only slow them down,” he says, making reference to his non-mounted fighting style. 

“Alright, well, in that case, I guess we’re done here,” Dimitri says. 

Byleth stands up and beckons to Felix. He follows their professor out of the Duke’s office immediately, probably off to go spar. Dimitri takes a final look at the map before he nods to both Ingrid and Sylvain and disappears from the room. Ingrid rounds on Sylvain. 

“What are you doing?” she demands. 

Sylvain shrugs. “You shouldn’t say no to a little backup, Ing. Especially in geography like this.” 

Ingrid frowns. “This is Galatea’s problem, Sylvain. I can handle it. No need to put two Crested-heirs in danger if it’s just a group of bandits.”

Sylvain catches her arm before she can walk away. “What if it isn’t just a group of bandits? I’m going to back you up, Ingrid. Even if it is bandits, we’ll take them down together and come back.”

“It’s a risk you don’t need to take,” she tries. 

He shakes his head. “I have Dimitri’s permission. You’re not going to talk me out of it.”

Ingrid sighs. “Fine. We’re leaving tomorrow at dawn. Meet me outside the stable and don’t be late. Bring half your battalion. We don’t need the entire coalition of Gautier Knights marching through.”

Sylvain nods. “I’ll be there.”

* * *

It’s only a day’s ride from Fraldarius territory to the edge of Galatea lands where the bandits have been striking most ruthlessly. Ingrid sticks to the skies, for the most part, keeping an eye on Sylvain’s shock of red hair as he rides with his soldiers below her. 

When they reach the first town, Ingrid lands, drawing Luín off her back. The town is mostly burned to the ground: buildings scorched and battered and people crowded in the streets, whispering amongst themselves as the Kingdom forces roll into the town. Ingrid feels sick seeing the destruction of her lands and she straps her weapon back to her back, reaching out to stop the nearest civilian.

“When did this happen?” she asks. 

The woman frowns and Ingrid can see a haunted hunger in her eyes, betraying the desperate, starvation of the villagers. “Two days ago. We had just sent word north to Fraldarius asking for assistance.” She eyes Ingrid’s armour and then notices the lance strapped to her back. The woman tries to sweep into a bow, but stumbles and Ingrid catches her, standing her back on her feet. 

“Please, I just want to help. There is no need for formalities here.”

Ingrid hears footsteps approach and she takes a hesitant look back to see that Sylvain has dismounted and come to stand at her side. The woman seems even more freaked out at the sight of the Gautier heir than she had seeing Ingrid. Ingrid steps in front of Sylvain, refocusing the woman on her. 

“Was this the work of the bandits?”

The woman nods. “They retreated east to the woods.”

Ingrid looks down the dirt road to the east. “Did they take anything from the town?”

She shakes her head. “No, they just seemed to want to burn and destroy.”

Ingrid nods to the woman. “Thank you for your help. We’ll take care of the bandits and I’ll have as much support as Fraldarius can bear sent down your way.”

The woman nods and then hurries away, leaving Ingrid and Sylvain alone. 

“Ingrid,” Sylvain starts, “that sounds suspicious to me.”

“I agree,” she says. “Why would bandits not steal? It’s like it was just a ploy for attention to come here and burn down a town.”

Sylvain touches her elbow lightly. “Let’s make haste east then, but be careful.” 

She nods to him. “You as well.” 

Ingrid turns away from him and whistles for half of her battalion to mount up. She directs the rest to stay here and to clear as much debris as they can to try and help the villagers. Sylvain calls for five of his soldiers to join them and leaves the rest to help out as well. Ingrid pushes herself back up into her saddle. 

She nudges her heels into her mount’s flanks and her pegasus beats its wings, taking off to the sky. Her fliers follow her in their formation and Sylvain leads the charge on the ground as they head towards the woods east of the village. 

In this part of Faerghus, the woods aren’t too thick, but it is enough that she has to lower her flight altitude and fly much more slowly and carefully to see through the gaps in the trees. Sylvain rides just ahead of her, surrounded by his soldiers, and Ingrid scans the woods, looking for signs of movement or life. 

The first sign she sees is the glint of light off of steel and she barely has time to recognize the flash of the arrowhead before it’s flying towards her. She pulls into a steep turn, urging her steed into a dangerous maneuver as she yells for the rest of her battalion to scatter and stay back out of range of the arrows. 

“Ingrid!” Sylvain yells for her from the ground.

She rights herself on her pegasus and takes a deep breath, pulling Luín off her back. She’s seriously disadvantaged against archers, but she doesn’t have much of a choice but to stay in the air with this kind of terrain. Her focus stays on the single archer that had shot at her, but her mount cries out, spinning suddenly to dodge another volley of arrows that she hadn’t seen. 

She stays flying after the arrows pass and she thinks she’s in the clear until her pegasus cries out again and lurches sharply to the right. Ingrid almost drops her weapon as she tries to right her horse, but then she sees the arrow embedded in the poor animal’s wing. The wound is enough to send her and her horse spiralling downwards and Ingrid grits her teeth, bracing herself for a hard landing. 

Branches batter her as she crashes through them and a sharp one cuts a thin line on her cheek. There’s an awful crunching noise when they do hit the ground and Ingrid’s vision goes black for a moment. Slowly, her vision returns, but so does an intense wave of pain and nausea. She looks down at her legs, the source of the pain, and finds herself pinned to the ground underneath her heavy mount who is letting out terrified whinnies.

Wounded and afraid, her pegasus tries to move and Ingrid cries out sharply as the flying horse’s weight shifts more onto her right leg which she’s already sure is broken. The horse seems just as badly hurt as she does, possibly more so. Ingrid doesn’t have a chance to soothe her companion before an arrow whizzes out of the trees and sinks into its neck. It gargles faintly before going still.

“No!” she yells desperately. 

She twists, still pinned, and almost cries at the pain that shoots through her legs. She’s fallen from heights before and broken a leg and her arm, but never in this kind of situation. She needs a weapon before those archers come to their senses. 

In the distance, probably on the other side of the pocket of woods, she can hear Sylvain yelling and the sound of metal on metal as he and his soldier engage with the bandits that had gotten the drop on them. She hopes that he has seen where she fell because she’s not getting out of this one on her own. 

Ingrid twists on the ground, looking for Luín. It had been knocked away and, to her dismay, the point of it is stuck into the ground out of her reach and she doesn’t have the energy to shove the heavy, unmoving body of her pegasus off of her. 

She draws the dagger she has on her and eyes her surroundings warily. 

“Ingrid!” Sylvain’s voice rings through the forest, closer than it had been before. 

The sounds of yelling and battle cries rise as the fight moves closer to her, probably following Sylvain. Ingrid almost sobs in relief but just as she’s about to call out for Sylvain, pain explodes in the back of her head and her body lurches forward, her vision flashing dark. 

She comes to after a hazy moment, her vision blurred, head spinning, and ears ringing. Sylvain’s voice sounds a thousand miles away as he continues yelling for her. Ingrid rolls her head back and can just barely make out the circling white horses in the skies: the remains of her battalion, looking for her. 

She’s on her stomach on the ground now but at least her legs have been freed from under the pegasus. Her tongue feels like lead in her mouth and she can taste blood. She is about to try and speak anyway when she hears a darker voice, one much closer than Sylvain’s panicked tone. 

“I wouldn’t try to scream, little noble bitch.”

Ingrid’s unfocused vision finds the silhouette of an armoured figure looming above her. She can just barely make out the Imperial symbols on the man’s armour and her stomach turns. Felix had been right. It is an Imperial trap and she has led Sylvain right into it. 

“This is one of the rebellion generals,” says a female voice, merely a blurry shadow behind the Imperial soldier. “She has a Crest.”

Ingrid tries to listen to the rest of the conversation but the ringing in her ears comes back when she shifts even a little and she nearly blacks out from the pain. She drifts a bit, in a haze, and almost succumbs to the blackness until she hears the frantic stomp of a horse approaching. 

“Get away from her!” Sylvain’s angry voice cuts through her darkness.

Ingrid opens her eyes and tries to push herself up onto her elbows. There’s a sharp burst of pain at the back of her head as someone grabs her hair and hauls her onto her knees. Her legs are jerked underneath and Ingrid sobs at the hot flare of pain that shoots through her broken leg. 

“Ingrid!” Sylvain cries out, his voice cracking on her name. 

She whimpers as the hand tightens in her hair, wrenching her head back. She tries to grab at the hand holding her up, but she is weak and isn’t able to do much about the situation as it stands. 

“Careful there,” the first Imperial, the one holding her, snarls. “Don’t want my hand to slip, do we?”

Ingrid closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath, pushing down her pain. She shoves it in the little boxes in her head and opens her eyes, meeting Sylvain’s terrified gaze. He has one hand clenched around the Lance of Ruin and the other tightly holding the reins of his mount as he stares at her. 

“Get out of here,” she tries to yell, but it comes out more like a faint whisper. 

The hand in her hair tightens and yanks again and Ingrid cries out. “Isn’t that cute? One little general trying to protect another,” the soldier growls. The cool steel of a knife presses against her throat and Ingrid holds her breath. “If you’d like her head to stay attached to her body, you’ll dismount and drop your weapon.”

“No,” Ingrid breathes. The compartmentalized pain is starting to seep out into her limbs again and she lets out a short whine. 

“Don’t hurt her,” Sylvain begs, sounding more desperate than Ingrid has heard in a long, long time. 

There’s a thud as he drops the Lance of Ruin to the ground and slowly dismounts his horse. Ingrid hears the murmur of an incantation in the woman’s voice and she cries out in fear as a bolt of lightning strikes out, catching Sylvain right in the chest. He collapses to the dirt, unmoving and Ingrid tries to scream. 

As soon as Sylvain is knocked down, Ingrid is dropped. She’s not prepared for the sudden motion and she lands on her stomach, her head smacking the ground. She stains her neck as much as she can to look after where Sylvain had fallen and she sees more Imperial soldiers emerging from the bushes, encircling him. 

The soldier standing above her, who must be a commander of some sort, steps over Ingrid, leaving her in a pile on the ground. She watches as the man strides towards Sylvain’s mount, a dark grey mare who Sylvain named Hugo despite every plea Ingrid made to him and every scowl received from Felix. Hugo is, naturally, quite freaked out upon seeing his rider be taken down by the Bolting spell.

Hugo rears and kicks an Imperial soldier straight in the chest. The man goes down hard and all the soldiers take a wary step back. Through the pain, the corner of Ingrid’s lip curls up at the horse’s spirit. 

“Don’t kill the horse,” the commander says. “It will serve as a warning.” 

Ingrid’s eyelids droop from the pain coursing through her body, but adrenaline lets her eyes stay open long enough to watch the commander pick up the Lance of Ruin and jab its point into the dirt. 

“Don’t touch the Relics. They’re dangerous without Crests and we don’t need any reason for these two to have anything like that near them. Leave them here and let them signal to their Mad Prince what fate has befallen his friends.”

Two soldiers bend down, grabbing Sylvain by his arms and Ingrid lifts a hand weakly.

“No!” she cries out and the commander turns back to her, sneering. 

“Little noble bitch wants us to let him go, I am thinking.” He stalks towards her and kneels in front of her. Ingrid tries to lean away, but he grabs her by the chin and forces her head towards him as he stares coldly into her eyes. “You won’t be far from him,” he sneers. 

He drops her and Ingrid slumps on the ground, her head pounding again. She pushes herself up on her elbows and tries to sit up, but there’s a blur of black and her head explodes in pain again and this time her vision goes black.

* * *

The floor is cold underneath her. Cold and slightly damp and definitely uncomfortable. Ingrid stirs, trying to push her hands underneath her to sit up, but a warm hand touches her shoulder and presses down, keeping her against the ground. She twists her head, ignoring the spike of pain she feels, and forces her eyes open. 

The first thing she sees is Sylvain. He’s sitting next to her, slumped against a wooden post, one hand reached out to where he had pushed on her shoulder. His head is lowered, chin to his chest and Ingrid’s breath catches when she realizes the situation that they’re in. 

“Take it slow,” Sylvain whispers to her, his voice sounding rough. “You took a beating out there.”

Ingrid tries to sit up again and this time he helps her, reaching out to gently lift her by the arms. She winces at the aches running through her body and Sylvain’s frown tightens as he looks her over. He carefully brushes aside a strand of her filthy blonde hair. The touch is soft and she feels a tingle of unnatural warmth leave his fingertips. 

It’s a weak healing spell but it does soothe the raging headache blooming in her skull for a moment. 

Ingrid’s right leg hurts like a bitch but not nearly as much as it probably should for how broken it was. She catches Sylvain’s hand before he can withdraw it. “Thank you,” she says quietly. 

Sylvain’s lips press together and he nods. “I’m not good at this, Ing. It probably won’t last long.”

She slides closer to him, looking him up and down. He has a black eye and a cut on his cheek and he’s been completely stripped of his armour, leaving him in a loose teal shirt that’s scorched from the Bolting spell and simple light brown trousers. She looks down at herself and is slightly mortified to see that she’s been allowed to keep her modesty with her underclothes, but is otherwise wearing a flimsy white top and her torn riding pants. 

She looks at Sylvain, feeling dread curl around her stomach. “Where are we?”

He shakes his head. “Some Imperial encampment.”

Ingrid swallows hard. “So we’re,” she mumbles, trailing off. 

“Prisoners of war,” he finishes gravely. 

Ingrid sits up further and winces at a stab of pain in her head. Sylvain frowns at her. She ignores him and looks around her. They appear to be in some kind of tent, but there are bars driven into the ground with heavy spikes to create a cage-like appearance and to prevent them from reaching the edge of the tent. There are a few other “cells” in the tent, but all of them are empty.

“Why didn’t they just kill us? Doesn’t that send just as good a message as capturing us?” Ingrid asks quietly. 

Sylvain shrugs and she notices a tick of his eyebrow in discomfort at the motion. “My guess would be that they want something from us.”

Ingrid covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh no. They want to know where the army is and where our next move will take us.”

Sylvain looks frustrated at her words, but she knows she’s right. It’s a sickening thought and if their treatment so far has been an indication of what waits for them, Ingrid supposes that they probably should have wished that the Empire killed them back in the forest. 

“How are you?” she asks him, changing the subject abruptly. 

“I’m fine. It was just a shock to the system, literally, and it knocked me out cold for a few hours. I’m unhurt otherwise.”

She gently touches the bruise surrounding his eye and he twitches. “Hmm,” she hums. 

“That’s different,” he mutters. “I got that here when they tried to separate us.” He smirks bitterly. “Pummelled one guard before they managed to get me down, but they did let us stay together.”

She leans closer to him, inspecting the black eye, and she doesn’t notice the chatter that bursts into the tent until it’s too late. Sylvain’s arms wrap around her and he pulls her by her upper body until she’s basically behind him as they face down the five Imperials who had entered the tent. Ingrid grips the back of Sylvain’s shirt tightly and watches wordlessly as the commander who she had faced earlier steps forward, eyeing both of them. 

“The little bitch is awake now, I see,” he says. He steps right up to the bars and smirks down at them. 

“What do you want?” Sylvain snaps. 

“Simple,” the man says, “the current location of your rebellion’s army and their next destination.”

Sylvain tenses and Ingrid hopes he doesn’t say anything too rash, but she doesn’t hold her breath: it is Sylvain and their lives are at risk. 

“Fuck you,” he spits and Ingrid reasons that’s a warranted reaction: short and simple and true.

The commander scoffs. “So be it. We’ll start with him then.”

One of the soldiers steps forward and unlocks a section of the standing bars like a door and two other guards step in. Sylvain is rigid in front of her and Ingrid puts a hand on his shoulder in a silent show of solidarity. She’s not letting them get separated either.

The soldiers step forward, one reaching down to grab Sylvain. Sylvain jerks away from his grip, lurching right. Ingrid slides left as much as she can manage. The soldiers stay focused on Sylvain and apparently Ingrid had had too much confidence in her friend’s strength as, between the two soldiers, they manage to twist his arm back until he cries out and force him down onto his knees. 

Ingrid stumbles to her feet. “Get off of him!” she cries. She grabs at one of the men, ripping his hands off Sylvain, but he just turns and slams her in the jaw with his elbow. 

Ingrid gasps and stumbles back. She’s unbalanced enough off of her still aching leg and she crumples back to the ground. Sylvain wrenches against the single soldier holding him back and there’s a bright flash of light as his Crest activates and he shoves the Imperial off of him. Sylvain stumbles towards Ingrid.

“Enough of this,” the commander snarls, grabbing Ingrid’s arm. He yanks her up and Ingrid winces. 

She’s strong but she’s still injured and exhausted and doesn’t have the strength to fight off a man who is taller and physically larger than her as he drags her across the cell. He pushes her back against the cell wall and presses his forearm against her throat. Ingrid chokes almost immediately, grabbing at his arm and trying to pry it down. He sneers at her and looks at Sylvain who is staring at her with a terrified expression on his face. 

“I think you’ll be coming with us quietly you noble brat, or you’ll see how good your girlfriend’s lungs are.”

Ingrid is starting to feel lightheaded as she desperately grips the man’s arm, gasping for air. He turns back to her, studying her face with a cruel expression. 

“Maybe we should just have this chat here. He seems to be motivated enough, doesn’t he?”

“Let her go!” Sylvain roars. He lunges towards them but the two guards manage to catch him, forcing his arms back and one of them cracks him across the face with a metal gauntlet.

Ingrid digs her nails into the commander’s arm and he swears at her, dropping his arm down. Ingrid crumples, wrapping a hand over her throat as she takes deep, trembling breaths. The air rattles in her chest and she pushes herself up just in time to see them dragging Sylvain out of the cell while he fights them, trying to get back to her. 

“Sylvain!” she cries, crawling towards him. His eyes are dark with panic and she shakes her head fiercely. “Don’t tell them anything,” she commands. 

His lips twitch and then he’s being dragged out of the tent completely and Ingrid is alone.

* * *

Ingrid tries to keep track of the time that Sylvain is gone, but with only the faint lantern light in the tent, it’s hard to know what time he had been taken and what time it is currently. She tries her hand at a few simple healing spells, but the White Magic fizzles at her fingertips. 

It has never been her calling. 

She leans back against the wooden pole in their cell and closes her eyes, counting her breaths. As she breathes, she hears footsteps approaching and she snaps her eyes open, staring at the entrance of the tent. The fold flies back, and the same men re-enter. This time, they are dragging a limp Sylvain between them and Ingrid’s heart leaps into her chest. 

The cell is opened and she lunges forward, trying to reach Sylvain as they practically toss him in. He falls limply to the dirty floor and Ingrid crawls over to him, desperately feeling along his neck for a pulse. She finds it thrumming faintly beneath her fingers and the cell door slams shut with a clang. 

The commander sneers at her. “The brat is tougher than we thought. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

They sweep out of the tent without another word and Ingrid pulls Sylvain into her lap as much as she can, assessing him for any serious injuries. His black eye is twice as dark and there is dried blood on his cheek and he lets out a low groan as she shifts him. His shirt is bloodied and Ingrid can see what looks like knife stab wounds along his side and she feels sick. 

“Sylvain,” she breathes quietly. “Please, wake up.”

He stirs and blinks open unfocused warm brown eyes. Ingrid lets out a shaky breath of relief and brushes aside some of his hair. His skin is warm to the touch, but he’s not feverish. Ingrid realizes belatedly that she’s just cold. 

“Hey,” he croaks, shifting in her arms. 

“Don’t, Sylvain,” she murmurs. “Just stay down.”

He sits up anyway, wincing when he adjusts the position of his upper body. Ingrid frowns at him, but Sylvain ignores her, touching the bottom of her chin lightly with his hand as he studies the faint bruising along her neck. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. 

She wraps her arms around him and pulls him into a fierce hug. “Shut up. It’s not your fault. We’re only here because I insisted we check out that bandit troupe.”

Sylvain hugs her back tightly and his hand curls into her hair. Ingrid tenses momentarily, but then she reminds herself that Sylvain means her no harm and she presses her face into the crook of his neck. 

“Are you okay?” she breathes. 

“Relative,” he replies quietly. “But I’m here, Ingrid, and I didn’t tell them anything. Dimitri and the others are safe.”

_For now_ , she thinks darkly. They have no idea how much patience the Imperials will have with them and Ingrid doesn’t want to see what will happen when they run out of patience.

* * *

Ingrid is startled awake by the cell slamming open. She jolts against Sylvain, but Sylvain’s arms just tighten around her waist instinctively. They had slept bundled against each other in an attempt to share warmth, but it had given Ingrid a serious crick in her neck.  
  
She twists in Sylvain’s grip until she sees the same commander and three guards standing at the door to the cell. Sylvain grips her thin shirt so tightly she’s sure he’ll tear it. The commander makes eye contact with Ingrid as if he is daring her to challenge him today. 

“Well, little noble bitch, are we going to have a fight getting you out of there today?”

“No,” Ingrid says. 

“Yes,” Sylvain snarls at the same time. He tenses when he hears her answer and she takes a deep breath. 

She turns to him and touches his face lightly. “I won’t say anything,” she mouths to him and Sylvain’s frown deepens. 

“Let me fight,” he whispers. 

She shakes her head and detaches his hands from her, crawling out of his embrace towards the Imperial soldiers. She stands on shaky feet and limps towards the Imperials. One of the guards grabs her by the arm and tugs her out of the cafe. Ingrid stumbles and is caught by the familiar steel grip of the commander. 

The commander looks past her to Sylvain who is seething at the far side of the cell. The man’s grip on Ingrid’s arm tightens. “You’ll behave, won’t you, boy?”

Sylvain fixes him with a dark glare, but he doesn’t say anything. Ingrid holds her breath as the commander nods and starts dragging her out of the cell. Ingrid stumbles on her shaky legs, but the rough jerk on her arm tells her that they will have no sympathy for her.

* * *

Sylvain is ready for her when they haul her back to the cell. He catches her before she hits the ground and eases them down together, already whispering words of comfort into her ears, but Ingrid just takes a terrified, pained breath and buries her face in his shoulder. Dimly, behind her, she can hear Sylvain exchange jabs with the commander, but she doesn’t take her face away from his chest. 

She stays curled against him for what feels like forever until Sylvain starts brushing back her hair and gently rubbing her neck and shoulders.

“He’s gone, Ingrid,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.” 

Ingrid takes a shaky breath and leans back a bit. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“Shit, Ing, what did they do to you?” He hesitates, smoothing his hands over her shoulders. “I heard you scream.”

Ingrid winces. “Oh.”

Sylvain looks her up and down and she notices his gaze catches on the deep stab wound on her leg that’s still bleeding faintly. Her pants are torn and bloodied around it and she looks down, not wanting to see the pity in his face. 

“That was the scream,” she murmurs. 

“Goddess,” Sylvain says, stroking the outside of her knee, afraid to get closer to the wound itself. “I’m tapped right now, but as soon as any of my magic is back.”

She rests her temple against his collarbone. “Please don’t ask me about the rest of it,” she cuts in softly. “I won’t ask you if you don’t ask.”

Sylvain kisses the top of her head and tucks his arms under her legs and under her as he lifts her. Ingrid is limp against him as he shifts them awkward as far away from the entrance to the cell as he can. He leans against the far row of bars and Ingrid leans into him, tears filling the corners of her eyes. 

Sylvain’s cheek presses against the top of her head as he clings to her. “I was so scared,” he murmurs. “I can’t lose you, Ing.”

Ingrid slides her hand up to the side of his face and rubs small circles into his jawbone. Neither of them says anything for the rest of the night.

* * *

Ingrid is awake this time when the Imperial commander comes back. Sylvain is dozing against her shoulder, tapped from using all of his magic to heal as many of Ingrid’s injuries as he could, but she pinches his arm as the tent flap opens. He jolts, but he’s awake by the time that the cell door opens. 

Sylvain grips her hand tightly. “Say nothing,” he promises, an affirmation of their hushed words from what feels like ages ago now. 

The commander frowns down at them both. “I think we’ve learned that you’re both too stubborn for the best of our methods. We’ve decided to change strategies.”

Ingrid tenses as the man reaches for her and Sylvain grips her hand tightly, but Ingrid digs her nails into his hand so that he drops her hand in surprise. She’s yanked up by the commander and he shakes his head at her, looking her up and down. 

“I’ve seen how he caves for you before, shall we test if it goes both ways?”

Blood drains out of Ingrid’s head and she tries to tear her arm free, terror sparking in her every nerve. “No!” she cries out.

The man doesn’t bother trying to hold onto her arm and he grabs her by the hair, dragging her further away from Sylvain. Ingrid fights him every step, lashing out. Sylvain lunges towards him, but he’s shoved back by two guards that step between him and Ingrid. Ingrid claws at the commander, but he just drops her hair and grabs her neck, twisting her so that he holds her against his chest, an arm around her throat, putting pressure but not choking her yet. 

“How much do you trust your partner, little bitch?” he hisses into her ear. 

The guards slam Sylvain back against the bars and a new figure steps into the cell. Ingrid’s blood runs cold. It’s a mage who raises a hand towards Sylvain and Ingrid watches the tendrils of Dark Magic curl around her friend. Sylvain grimaces, sinking to one knee as the magic tears into him until he starts to scream. 

“Tell me where your Prince is and all of this can stop,” the commander snarls to Ingrid. 

Ingrid cries but she says nothing.

* * *

Later, Sylvain takes her hand between his trembling palms and Ingrid cradles him, supporting him when he can hardly sit up. His arms are laced with burns from the Dark Magic, but he just whispers quiet thanks into her skin as she holds him. 

“We have to get out of here,” Sylvain says after hours have passed and darkness has long since fallen around the tent. 

“Sylvain, we’re both too weak to walk on our own,” Ingrid points out gently. She brushes her thumb along his cheekbone. “How are we supposed to get anywhere?”

“Presumably with some help,” a new voice offers.

Ingrid’s head jerks up and she stares at the entrance to the tent where Hilda Goneril stands, dressed in all black, leaning on an axe almost as large as she is. Hilda studies them. 

“You two look like shit,” she comments dryly. 

“Hilda,” Marianne cuts in, slipping into the tent beside Hilda, dressed in the same black garb. 

Marianne gives them a pitying look and traces a few quick sigils into the air. Her healing magic is strong and warm and Ingrid gasps as her bruises flash to nothingness and she grits her teeth as the bones in her leg try to fix themselves. 

“I’m sorry I can’t help more right now,” Marianne murmurs. 

“We need to get out of here,” Hilda says. She looks over her shoulder at the entrance to the tent. “You got the keys?”

“Got them,” Ignatz says, slipping inside the tent, holding a ring of keys. He quickly picks out the key to their cell and opens it. 

Ingrid stares at the three former Golden Deer in disbelief. “What are you all doing here?”

“Getting you out,” Hilda says firmly. 

“How did you know we were here?” Sylvain says, sounding completely astounded. 

“We’ll explain later, but for now,” Ignatz says, holding out a hand to Ingrid. 

Ingrid keeps one hand tightly in Sylvain’s as she lets Ignatz pull her to her feet. Hilda steps around Ingrid and slings Sylvain’s arm over her shoulder. She carries his weight easily, and Ingrid lets Sylvain’s hand drop as Ignatz helps her out of the tent. 

They limp slowly and silently through the edges of the Imperial encampment until they slip into the woods. They walk for a while, getting as far away from the camp as they can. Finally, they break the treeline and enter a much smaller, less military looking camp. 

Claude von Riegan stands silhouetted in front of a campfire and he turns to face them. “You made it,” he says, sounding relieved. 

Hilda scoffs. “Told you we would.”

She hobbles to a stump and lowers Sylvain down and he hisses in pain. Marianne immediately moves to his side, giving him more of her healing magic. Ingrid feels dizzy, but she can at least stay on her feet as she stares at Claude. 

“What are you doing here, Claude? Isn’t the Empire laying siege to your city?” Ingrid asks. 

Claude shrugs. “Lorenz is surprisingly capable. We’ve been doing reconnaissance work around these parts and, well,” he trails off, gesturing to the twin lances leaning against a nearby tree. 

Ingrid covers her mouth. It’s Luín and the Lance of Ruin, pulsing with a faint red light. “Oh my Goddess,” she breathes. “I guess you got there before the Kingdom did.”

Claude shrugs. “Come on. Sit down, let Marianne work, and you can be on your way tomorrow.” His green eyes soften a bit as he looks between her and Sylvain. “You two have clearly been through a lot.” 

* * *

In the morning, Marianne heals them again and some of the lingering aches and pains disappear with the shy Alliance healer’s light touch. Neither Ingrid nor Sylvain says anything to Claude or the others about how they slept, but by the heavy circles around his eyes, Ingrid knows that he didn’t sleep much better than she did. 

Claude offers them one horse, saying that in their states, they probably shouldn’t ride solo. Ingrid isn’t going to protest as Sylvain fetches their weapons. Their armour is lost to the Imperials, but Hilda gives Ingrid a jacket and Claude gives Sylvain a new shirt.

Sylvain sits behind Ingrid on the horse and she wraps the reins around her hands, hesitating before they take off. She looks between the four Golden Deer that had helped them and her heart twists with deep, unsettling gratitude. 

“Thank you,” she says to them and it’s not enough, but it’s all she can offer for now.

Claude nods. “Good luck in Fhirdiad.”

Ingrid decides not to question how Claude knows their army’s destination and just squeezes her heels against the flanks of the borrowed horse. Sylvain’s arms loop around her waist and he holds her tightly, almost like he’s still trying to make sure that she’s alright. Ingrid leans back against him and just focuses on steering the horse through the wooded trail back towards the village they had originally been trying to help in Galatea. 

She’s so focused on the trail ahead, she almost bowls right into the swordsman that breaks out of the bushes. The horse rears and Ingrid and Sylvain both nearly topple off the mount onto the ground. Ingrid yanks hard on the reins, banking to the right and getting the horse under control. Sylvain’s arm around her waist is so tight that she almost can’t breathe, but then she recognizes the swordsman and she can’t breathe anyway. 

Felix stares at the two of them, looking completely horrified. 

“Oh fuck.”

* * *

“Ingrid, you should drink this,” Mercedes says, handing her a glass of water.

Ingrid winces as Mercedes carefully pulls a stitch through the cut on her thigh and sips the water with a shaky hand. “And magic wouldn’t have helped with this?” Ingrid says, grimacing. 

Mercedes sighs. “Maybe right away, but this is a deep wound and I need to make sure it doesn’t get infected.” She ties off the stitch and Ingrid grunts at the twinge of pain. 

Mercedes dabs the wound with a clean cloth and then carefully rolls Ingrid’s stocking back up over it. She smooths out the fabric and then her soft blue eyes lock with Ingrid’s and she smiles sympathetically. Ingrid turns away, staring at her hands. She knows what Mercedes wants to ask, but she doesn’t think that she’s ready to talk about it yet. 

“Ingrid,” Mercedes says, pressing the issue anyways. “If you ever want to talk about what happened, please don’t hesitate to talk to me.”

“Thank you, Mercedes,” Ingrid says politely, her tone clipped, “but I don’t think I will want to.”

Mercedes turns away from her, slowly packing up the suture kit that she used to pull the stitches. She cleans up quietly and slowly and Ingrid steals a glance at her friend. Mercedes looks up as Ingrid glances over. 

“We were all so worried about you when that messenger from Galatea arrived back. Byleth had to ban Dimitri and Felix both from heading out there right away.”

Ingrid laughs faintly. It sounds like her friends. “We were only gone a couple of days,” she murmurs.

Mercedes turns back to her, catching her hand and squeezing it. “Don’t minimize it,” she says firmly. “I understand that you don’t want to tell me about it and I respect that, but you should not pretend like nothing happened, dear.”

“I know,” Ingrid replies quietly. “I was just so scared.”

Mercedes pulls her into a gentle hug and Ingrid feels tears well up in her eyes as she hugs her friend back. “That’s a perfectly reasonable thing to feel, Ingrid, but you’re safe now. You both are."

* * *

Ingrid is pretty sure that the bath she had taken when she first got back to Fraldarius manor had been the longest bath she had taken since she was a very young child. She had scrubbed her skin until it was almost raw and had washed her hair with soap four times, trying to feel clean.

She had been aching all over and bruised and had started one of her cuts bleeding again, but she had gotten to dress in clean clothes and feel real floors beneath her feet and sit on a real bed. 

She has hardly slept for four days.

On the fifth night back at the manor, she’s lying awake in bed, her skin buzzing and her mind spinning when she finally decides that it’s not worth it. She swings her feet out of bed and finds a pair of slippers and a small night robe to tuck around herself before she leaves her bedroom, creeping down the halls to the other guest wing. 

She counts four doors down the hallway and then knocks gently against the door. She hears a shuffling noise immediately and her heart twists as the door swings open after a second. Sylvain is there, shirtless, and looking exhausted. He looks surprised to see her, but Ingrid just pushes him back into his room and steps in, closing the door behind herself. 

“What’s up, Ingrid?” Sylvain asks quietly.

“I can’t sleep,” she says. 

He smiles sadly. “I know the feeling.”

Ingrid kicks off her slippers and discards her robe, leaving her in a thin nightgown. She doesn’t bat an eye at Sylvain’s wide-eyes as she grabs his hand and pulls him towards his bed. Sylvain goes with her, but he frowns, looking concerned. 

“Ingrid,” he protests lightly as she sits on the edge of his bed. 

She frowns back at him but doesn’t say anything. He sits on the bed next to her and wordlessly takes her hand. Ingrid rests her head on his shoulder and takes a few slow breaths. His thumb rubs into the back of her hand and she closes her eyes. 

“You know this isn’t very proper of us, right?” he murmurs.

“I don’t care about propriety,” Ingrid replies. “I just needed to see you. Felix told me that you freaked out at training with Annette today.”

Sylvain winces. “I just,” he starts, and Ingrid shushes him.

“No excuses. I get it.”

Her quiet reassurance is enough for him and he shifts next to her so that her head slides off his shoulder as he turns his torso towards her. Ingrid looks up at him, furrowing her brows. Sylvain cups her face with a warm hand. 

“I’ve taken worse,” he admits. “From Miklan.”

Her breath catches. It’s the first time that Sylvain has really, really admitted to how nasty his relationship had been with his brother when he was a child. His hand is warm against her face and she keeps their eyes locked together.

“I’ve never been more afraid than I was when that man put his hands on you, Ingrid. I thought I was going to lose you.”

She touches his hand with her own, reassuring him. “You didn’t.”

“I would have let him do anything to me to keep you safe,” Sylvain murmurs. 

Ingrid frowns and his hand wanders, smoothing out a wrinkle on her face. “Sylvain,” she says, but the rest of her words are swallowed when he leans forward and presses a featherlight kiss to her lips. 

“Stay,” he whispers against her lips. 

Ingrid kisses him back. She pulls him closer to her and leans back, falling into his bed and Sylvain follows her. They kiss for a little while, but their touches stay light and gentle. His hands stroke over her curves and she rubs his shoulders and chest until they have to part for air and Ingrid gasps breathily. 

Sylvain leans down, resting his head against her collarbone. “How can I make you stay?”

She turns his face back towards hers with her hand and kisses him lightly again. “I’ll stay,” she says.

Sylvain’s arm winds around her waist and he rests his head against her chest, pressing his ear right over her heart. Ingrid strokes his hair as he listens to his heartbeat. His weight over her is warm and comforting and familiar and for the first time since they had been awoken by Hilda and the others, Ingrid feels like she might actually sleep. 

“I was scared too,” she confesses quietly.

Sylvain takes her hand and squeezes it. “Goddess, I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t been with you when you went to Galatea.”

Ingrid gives him a weak smile. “Probably gone crazy here and made Byleth even more stressed than they already are.”

Sylvain laughs. “Yeah, probably.”

He shifts above her again, bracketing his arms around her as he leans down to kiss her again. Ingrid hums into his gentle kiss and Sylvain lowers his weight against her as the kiss heats up, sparking something warm in her stomach. His fingers drift through her hair and she hums, but then her mind goes blank and she jerks away from him, suddenly hyperventilating.

Sylvain lets her retreat and immediately looks guilty. “Ingrid,” he starts. 

She rubs her face tiredly. “I’m sorry.”

He slides forward and kisses her forehead. “Do not apologize,” he says firmly. “Take as long as you need.”

She tilts her head up and kisses him lightly again. Sylvain is hesitant this time until Ingrid digs the pads of her fingers into his scalp, coaxing him closer again. He breaks the touch of their lips slowly and grazes the back of his hand against her cheek, resting his forehead against hers. 

“Stay,” she says, echoing his earlier sentiments. 

“Forever,” he promises. “I love you.”

Ingrid knows. She has known this since he laid down everything for her in the forest, but his words still make her stomach tighten like a silly girl and she smiles, tugging lightly on his hair in return. 

“I love you too,” she whispers. 

“Will you stay?”

“As long as you’ll have me,” she confirms to the stillness of the room.


End file.
